Two Years in Silence: She Cut Me Out as I Approach 70
Two years have gone by. Not a single letter, not even a quick message. My daughter has wiped me from her world. And now, here I stand, on the cusp of seventy.
Everyone around here knows Evelyn Hartwell. Shes sixty-eight, living alone in her little terraced house. Now and then, I bring over a tin of shortbread or a fresh loafjust being friendly. Shes gentle, well-spoken, always with a smile, fond of chatting about holidays she took with her late husband, Arthur. But family? Thats a rare topic. Then, just before Christmas, when I dropped by with some mince pies as usual, she surprised me with a confession. Its a story that still leaves me uneasy.
That evening, Evelyn wasnt her usual self. Normally so warm, she sat stiffly, staring into space. I didnt pushjust brewed the tea, laid out the biscuits, and waited. After a long silence, she let out a shaky breath.
Two years Not a word. No calls, no letters. I tried ringingthe numbers dead. I dont even know where she lives now.
She hesitated, her gaze distant. Then, as if she couldnt hold it in any longer, the words spilled out.
We were happy once. Arthur and I married young but waited before having childrenwanted time for ourselves. His work took us across the country. We laughed constantly, loved our home, built it up together. He put his heart into that housea cosy three-bedroom in the heart of Birmingham. His pride and joy.
When our daughter, Emily, was born, Arthur was over the moon. He carried her everywhere, read her bedtime stories, cherished every moment with her. Watching them, I felt like the luckiest woman alive. But ten years ago, Arthur was gone. A long illness drained our savings, and then silence. A hollow ache, like part of me vanished with him.
After her fathers death, Emily drifted away. Moved into a flat, wanted her own space. I didnt argueshe was an adult, after all. She visited, we talked, things seemed normal. Then two years ago, she came over and announced she was taking out a mortgage to buy her own place.
I explained gently that I couldnt help. What little wed saved went on Arthurs care. My pension barely covers the bills and my prescriptions. Then she suggested selling the house. We could get you a small flat outside the city, she said, and the rest could go toward my deposit.
I couldnt do it. It wasnt about the moneyit was the memories. Every wall, every cornerArthur built them. My whole life was here. How could I let it go? She snapped, saying her father had done it all for *her*, that the house would be hers one day anyway, that I was being selfish. I tried to explain I just wanted her to come back someday and remember us But she wasnt listening.
She slammed the door that day. Not a word since. No calls, no visits, not even at Christmas. Later, a mutual friend mentioned shed taken the mortgage, working herself to the bonetwo jobs, no social life. No partner, no children. Even her friend hasnt seen her in months.
And me? I wait. Every day, I glance at the phone, willing it to ring. It never does. I cant even reach hernumber changed, I suppose. She doesnt want to see me. Doesnt want to hear me. Thinks I failed her that day. But Ill be seventy soon. I dont know how many evenings Ill spend by this window, waiting. Or what I did to make her turn away like this.
